


To Die, And To Be Reborn

by CaliChardonnay



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Under the Red Hood
Genre: Child Death, Claustrophobia, Conversational Tone, Gen, Jason Todd Birthday Week, Memories, POV First Person, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 19:59:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15647916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaliChardonnay/pseuds/CaliChardonnay
Summary: There are some memories that we'd rather let fade away into the night. But they still shape us into who we are. Red Hood shares some of his own.Written for Jason Todd Birthday Week - Day Three: Memories





	To Die, And To Be Reborn

People often ask me what it was like. How did it feel? What did you see? Was there anything there?

What was it like to die?

“To die, to sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream. Aye, there's the rub, for in this sleep of death, what dreams may come?” is my usual reply, half to dodge the question, and half to just act like a prolific asshole. Truth is, I don't know. Or, at least, I don't remember. I think that whatever that final, ineffable “truth” is, what happens to us after we die is just too...too big, too unexplainable, too _much_ for our human consciousness to accept, and in those that miraculously return, however they end up pulling that feat off, the after just sorta _blips_ out of your head, like a traumatic childhood memory. It just simply “is” and we mortals don't want to accept that as the answer. Honestly, we're probably better off that way.

Existential philosophy aside, I couldn't tell you what it was like to die, to be _killed_ as I was, other than...I just know it happened. The events leading up to that sudden stop are still clear in my mind – I remember pain. A _lot_ of pain, to the point that it just didn't feel like much of anything anymore. More of a numbness. I remember the smell of blood and cigarette smoke. Dizziness. Fear. I was...so scared at that moment. More so with every _tick tick tick_ of the bomb left for me and the woman I had thought was my mother.

I remember being deafened by the blast. Ears ringing. Heat. Choking on smoke and ash with each breath. I remember trying to scream out _his_ name, call out to my hero, my _partner_ , in some last ditch, desperate hope that he'd pull me out of this at the very last second. In my head, I kept screaming, “Batman! Batman!” but my throat couldn't wheeze out even the tiniest noise.

All I could think was “Batman will _find me_. Batman will _save me_.”

But he never came.

I think I blinked once. And then it was over.

Whatever happened after that..it's like a huge chunk of something is missing. I think my mind doesn't want to remember, or simply can't.

Coming _back_ , on the other hand? _That_ I remember as clearly as my last day. Sometimes I wish I didn't. That it was lost to the ether with whatever memory of an afterlife I may or may not have experienced.

Unfortunately, this is _me_ we're talking about here. No such luck on losing the memories I'd _really prefer_ to not have.

 

To this day, I'm not exactly sure what brought me back. I just remember I had blinked after the explosion and was now somewhere else...somewhere very dark, very still, the only thought...or feeling, really, that I could make out was that I _existed_. I was simply _there_ , trapped in a quiet, dark, cold space, not sure at all where _there_ was, but _knowing_ that's where I was. I couldn't move, couldn't see, couldn't feel anything else at all...until a deep pulsing boom quaked from the center of my heart and rippled through the rest of my body, like plucking against the thickest string of a bass and letting it ring out to silence again on its own.

I remember feeling a slow, rolling wave of warm glowing through every vein, every artery, with every new and sudden heartbeat, forcing my barely there consciousness to realize just how _cold_ I was. My skin tingled from the lowest layer, blood and sensation tickling all the way to the tips of my fingers and toes, and yet I still couldn't _see_ and for some reason I didn't even _care_. I remember shaking, trembling, when an overwhelming weight in the pit of my chest suddenly dissipated into nothing, forcing me to gasp in my first gulp of air. I hadn't even realized I was holding my breath. The air was stale, solid, and musty, chilled and still. I could breathe, but just barely. I moved my arms up, but just barely. My joints were stiff and rigid, and my hands could only move mere inches before touching upon smooth silk veiling a harder surface above me. I realized immediately that I was trapped, imprisoned in this dark, far too small place, and some primal part of my brain simply snapped, _panicked_ , and suddenly I could _hear_ again, but the only noise in my pitch black cell was my own _screaming_ piercing my ears. Screaming until my throat was raw and I spat blood.

Screaming out _his_ name. Screaming for _Batman._

Batman would _find me_. Batman would _save me_.

And still he never came.

I had to get out. I shoved against the silken roof just inches above my face as hard as I could, banging against what felt like wood over and over again. The air was too thin. I couldn't breathe. I was scared. I didn't want to die.

And yes, I fully relish the _irony_ in that thought. But if _you_ suddenly woke up in a casket, six feet underground, with no idea how you just appeared there, I'd _love_ to see just how calm and collected _you'd_ be in that situation.

But I digress.

Instinct and adrenaline took over at that point. They were all that kept me moving, kept my focus in a tunnel ahead of me, scratching and digging through silk and splinters and cold, solid earth. My fingers were soaked in blood that had only newly pumped into my veins, but pain and I were not exactly on the same page anymore. I kept digging and climbing, forcing my way through heavy darkness, crawling out of what might have been hell itself when suddenly the hard earth that seemed to go on forever gave way to something much softer. I pressed onward, and felt the first unexpected rush of cool air against my slicked palm as my hand escaped, the first part of me to break through to the surface, back to the land of the living.

That first breath of fresh air was...well, indescribable, to be very honest. Relating it to an orgasm, or a drug rush, or the best kind of vertigo from grappling off a rooftop for the first time...just simply doesn't do it enough _justice._ It was simply _life_ and I was all too thrilled to choke it down as greedily as I could. I remember it was dark, but nowhere near as dark as the grave I had just pulled out of. I remember it was raining, thunder and lightning dancing together in the distance.

Because of course it was. This is _me_ we're talking about here. Folks have often said I have a flair for the overly dramatic and it seems the universe wanted me to keep up that reputation.

 

So yeah, people ask me all the time, how did it feel? What did I see? What was it like to _die_?

My answer is still the same. I don't know. Or I at least don't remember.

What it was like to be _born_ , on the other hand? _That_ I remember.

 

 

 


End file.
